


The Colors of your Love

by midearthwritings



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blind Character, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Injury, Kissing, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midearthwritings/pseuds/midearthwritings
Summary: Thankfully, the most beautiful things are invisible to the eye.(Or : War left you blind, but Arwen's love remains.)
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Reader
Kudos: 6





	The Colors of your Love

**Author's Note:**

> A one shot about my childhood's true love, because I can.  
> Originally published on Tumblr (@midearthwritings)

Sitting still, you listen. What had been a pleasant whisper of the wind is now a deafening scream. It fills your ears, as all you can do is listen. You think back of your own scream. The one you had let out as your enemy's sword sliced your face. You remember falling to the ground, blood filling your eyes as the pain took over. Desperately, you had prayed for the Gods to put an end to your suffering. But they had not been clement with you. So you had waited for it to go away, in all your glorious consciousness.

It had never left. The pain remained. But your sight did not. When you had been taken back to the safety of Rivendell, even after being taken care of by the best of healers living between these walls, you had not been able to see anything. You were damned to live in eternal darkness. The one that could not be slain with a light of any kind.

Behind you, the door is pushed open. When it is closed again, the sound echoes, covering the quiet steps approaching you. Slightly, you tilt your head towards their source. Plunged into complete blackness, you fear for the intruder's identity. Even if you know you cannot get hurt in here, the turmoil of being attacked makes your guts clench.

"It is said that you were injured." Automatically, you relax at her voice. It has been long since you have seen her. Too long to your liking. 

"Why haven't you visited me sooner?" There is venom in your words, which you regret instantly. You have loved Arwen dearly for as long as you can remember, and you do not wish to take your anger out on her. Departing to the battlefield had been your choice, not hers. Several times, she had pleaded for you to stay, told you you would get hurt. But your stubbornness had pushed those warnings away, and now you were paying the price. She was not to be blamed.

"I have been occupied." 

You listen, as she comes closer, her voice getting louder. She doesn't hold any anger in it. Only slight pain. As she sits down next to you, you keep listening. The fabrics of her robes brush against the furniture in a soft caress. Her breathing seems peaceful and calm for those who do not know her. To you, it is short, filled with worries.

"I will never see again." You admit, holding out your hand. As hers slides into it, you smile. "The wound still hurts and keeps me awake at night. But it is nothing your presence cannot soothe."

Eyes are not needed for you to know she is blushing lightly. The idea that you will never be able to witness the rosey color on her cheeks any more makes you heart ache in a way you had never felt before. 

Delicately, as if not to break you, she lets go of your grip and reaches up to trace your jawline. Fingertips travel from your cheek, upwards on your face, barely brushing against your skin. You feel them hovering over the fresh scar.

"How does it look?" You ask as they caress the scarred tissues. The touch, no matter how gentle, makes you hiss in pain. Her hand retreats.

"It will heal." Her voice remains soft, and the words reassuring despite the heavy truth that lies behind them. 

You sigh, for you know the years will not erase war's claim on your face. When the blood and pain finally fade away, there will still be traces for people to see, and for you to remember. If some wear those memories with pride, proof of their accomplishments, you do not wish to do so. In pure vanity, you would gladly give away the title of hero you were given in order to regain the beauty you have lost. 

"My love for you is not changed, regardless of your looks." 

The ghost of another smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Never had she lied to you before and you can only trust her as he utter those words, knowing she speaks the truth. Once more, you sigh. For a moment, you allow yourself to grieve the image of Arwen, her and those fierce eyes that you will never see again. And when the palm of her hand cups your untouched cheek, you close your eyes, darkness becoming even darker.

Leaning into her touch, deprived from your ability to see, you notice things you never paid attention to before. The way every inch of her hand touches your skin, or how she unconsciously applies more pressure with her index finger than the others. 

You frown, your tongue poking out of your mouth to come and wet your dry lips.

"Help me see, Arwen." The request sounds unusual, weird even. Yet, she understands.

"The room is bathed with sunlight." She begins, her thumb tentatively exploring the corner of your mouth. "It is very bright, very pure, like clouds in the early summer, or snow."

As she speaks, you remember of the countless winters you spent together. You think back to the snowflakes, falling lightly on her black hair, contrasting beautifully. Slowly, you reach for them, your hand finding the way from her wrist, up to her shoulder where they lie lazily. They are soft. They have always been.

"What else?" You plead, your fingers entangling themselves in the silky strands. You feel her looking around.

"There are flowers, in a vase on the table. They are red. A deep crimson, like the blood that stains a warrior's hands." 

There is no blood in your mind, no field of corpses, no slitted throats. Only her, and those red robes you love to see her wearing. The ones that make her look like a divine being. And her lips. Not quite red, but oh so exquisite.

Blindly, because you cannot and will never be able to do otherwise, you lean forward. She guides you, her hand still cradling your face, and you stop when your nose brushes hers. Her breath against your skin feels heavier than it has ever felt before, but it is not unwelcome. And so you break the remaining distance to press a kiss to her lips. 

It is chaste, like those exchanged by young lovers, and it doesn't last. It doesn't need to. It tastes of the sweetest things, such as sugar and honey. But it also tastes of the sea, salty and troubled. Leaving the comfort of her mane, your hand now goes for her face. Her warm tears roll against your palm.

"Why is it that you are crying?" 

"I cry for you have been selfish." She whispers accusingly. "Did you not think of me when you left to battle? There is more than just your sight that you could have lost."

Ignoring the guilt growing in your stomach, you chuckle, and your forehead falls to hers. 

"But I did not die, now, did I?" The question is playful, but you hope it reassures her. Tenderly, you wipe her tears away. "So there is no need to cry."

"I can very well decide wether I wish to cry or not." She says in her very own Arwen way, pulling another quiet laugh out of you.

Again, you seal your lips in a kiss, the pain induced by your wound reminder of what was taken away from you. It was a good thing, then, that love was meant to be felt and not seen.


End file.
